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Raine Bennett 




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AFTER THE DAY 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/afterdaycollectiOObenn 



After the Day 

A Collection of 
Post' War Impressions 



By 

Raine Bennett 

With an Introduction by 

George Douglas 

Literary Editor of the San Francisco Chronicle 




Boston 

The Stratford Co., Publishers 
1920 






Copyright 1920 

The STRATFORD CO., Publishers 

Boston, Mass. 



The Alpine Press, Boston, Mass., U. S. A. 



©CU586849 



Dedication 

OMEMORIED Thebes! Behold what frac- 
tured pile 
Uprears its crumhling arches to the sky! 
Around forgotten plinths gaunt shadows lie 
Traced hy the gloaming moon. A columned aisle 
Remains, bereft of frieze and peristyle — 

All else is gone. Through wild mimosas sigh 
The vagrant winds, and far, an ibis cry 
Awakes the sinuous liquescent Nile. 

Here men have sought obliterated golds, 

Have wooed the ancient airs, and held their 
sway — 
Whereat I closed mine eyes to silent molds 

And wandering in fancy, linked Today 
With Yesterday. Then all the Future holds 
Bushed by me like a dream and passed 
away. 



Introduction 

WHATEVER the reader may discover in 
the poetry of Raine Bennett, he cannot 
fail to recognize a pronounced individuality and 
a singular aptitude for dramatic expression. In 
the detail of form Bennett is not conventional, 
but his unconventionality in manner is the re- 
sult of a symphonic cast of mind rather than 
the pose of a deliberate rebel. Sometimes he ap- 
pears to be merely improvising with words, 
but in a few moments we have caught the cen- 
tral theme and are amazed at its magnetic 
sincerity. 

What does it matter whether the verse be 
free or ''fettered," ''new" or "old" if the 
singer have both song and sincerity? It is the 
irritating pose, the trivial affectation of so many 
"free verse" bards, rather than their form 
against which the average reader rebels. Free 
verse begins, for some readers, with the suspi- 
cion of being an affectation, though as a matter 
of fact there is just as much and possibly more 
affectation in those formal lines the "music" 

vii 



INTEODUCTION 

of which conceals so much. Free verse is more 
transparent, and it is the merit of Bennett that 
what we see in his work is always worth the 
seeing. 

Always there is some idea expressed through 
the medium of an emotion, and if the poet is 
more dramatic than lyric, it is because he is 
picturing rather than singing about war. He 
has written several dramas, and as a Californian 
has the distinction of being the first dramatist 
of his state to achieve the production of a manu- 
script at the Greek Theatre, Berkeley. It was 
a Bedouin tragedy entitled ' ' The Talisman ' ' and 
was well received by critics and the public at 
this, its second presentation, having been first 
produced by literati of Carmel at the "Forest 
Theatre. ' ' Another play, the ' ' South Sea Idol, ' ' 
was given its initial production two years be- 
fore at the Columbia Theatre in San Fran- 
cisco. He distinguished himself while a stu- 
dent of law at Stanford University, by partici- 
pating in the literary plays given by various 
dramatic societies there, and later interpreted 
roles in "Fire," an aboriginal drama by Mary 
Austin, and ' ' Runymede ' ' by William Greer Har- 
rison. The latter apostrophised Bennet's charac- 

viii 



INTRODUCTION 

terization of King John in a dedicated poem. 
In addition, Bennett has lectured on the drama, 
paying special attention to the one-act play. 
His most recent work is included in this volume. 

Mention is made of his dramatic experiences 
because of their bearing upon this collection of 
verse ''After the Day," which he aptly des- 
cribes as a series of ''post-war impressions, writ- 
ten from the psychological viewpoint of a sol- 
dier permanently maimed and confronted with 
a world of the physically fit, with whom he 
must continue to be a competitor." These 
"after the day" or "nocturnal" impressions 
were all written with a view to their being read 
aloud, and as dramatic reading they take on a 
singularly magnetic quality. 

The war did not make Bennett a poet, but it 
revealed the poet in him, and to himself, as much 
as to his readers. He saw things so clearly and 
felt so strongly he wanted to set everything 
down precisely as seen and felt. His work took 
the form of free verse not because he looked 
upon that form as final, but because he did not 
want to leave anjrthing of importance out of the 
picture or to put in anything merely to fill. 

ix 



INTRODUCTION 

He wanted the perfect word, whether it hap- 
pened to be a dactyl or a spondee, hence his 
''free" or new verse. If the thing seen or the 
thing felt is more to you than the conventional 
melody of words, you will more than admire the 
poetiy of Raine Bennett. 

This does not mean that he is indifferent to 
the music of words. On the contrary you will 
find line after line construed with perfect ear, 
and in fact the melody is broken only when the 
thought or emotion so takes possession of him 
that he refuses to vary the expression to fit the 
cadence. 

The poem of the series which is entitled 
''Peace" was originally printed in the San 
Francisco Chronicle. As a result of its publica- 
tion quite a number of people wrote offering to 
care wholly or in part for the poet's material 
wants! The story of the wounded soldier had 
moved them to the limit of their generosity. It 
was praised by Witter Bynner, and other poets. 

The remaining themes are nearly all on war, 
and all have distinctive merit as the earnest 
song of a new singer. In some of them, Bennett 
gives quite a new meaning to free verse, for he 



INTRODUCTION 

shows that it can he free to be perfectly beauti- 
ful, melodic, and sometimes even pretty, though 
strength is his dominant note. 

George Douglas, 

Literary EMor of the 
San Francisco Chronicle. 



XI 



Contents 








Peace 1 


Raoul's Last Nocturne 








11 


The Shell Crater 








23 


Before Cambrai 








. 27 


Le Poilu . 








29 


Departure 








31 


Antoine, the Birdman 








33 


Found in a Diary 








40 


Soldier, Answer Me! 








45 


Pere Lachaise 








48 


Croix De Guerre 








55 


Wounded . 








57 


A Whisper at the Gate 








59 


The Albatross 








61 


Domesday . 








63 


Amerongen Castle 








66 


The Sniper 








69 


Passing in the Sun . 








72 


The Aviator 








74 


Outriders of the Night 








77 


Le Strynge 








81 


Anarchy 








83 



Xlll 



CONTENTS 

Post Mortem 85 

Guilty .86 

Coup d'Etat 87 

De Profundis 88 

The Great War 89 

Miscellaneous 

I Saw a Dead Man 100 

On Duty 102 

In a Belgian Prison 105 

In The Shadows 106 

A Cashmere Song 107 



XIV 



Peace 

SHOULD poets be sent to battle — 
Drafted into service with a gun, 
Or mustered out for service with a pen ? 
That is the question old friends are asking, 
And I am yearning to answer them, I who lost 
My legs in Alsace, and my heart in Lorraine. 

No one is unkind to me ; which I take to be 
A fine deference, because in Lille 
I was a prisoner of War. 

As though a dream of childhood had been 

anticipated, 
I am allowed by my officials 
To watch a flock of Merino sheep 
On a wide farm in the West — 
While idling the hours I trace verses 
On the inside of wrappers embellishing cans 
Of Bordeaux mackerel, caught in Monterey. 
After this manner I strive, if ever so vainly, 
To unburden my mind of its terrors, 
Seeking to forget the scars inflicted on me 
Because I fought for my Country. 

[1] 



AFTER THE DAY 

A quaint adage used by my ancestors read : 
''A poet is born, not made — " 
But that was long before the war. 

I, a mutilated soldier, abandoned by all 
Former associations, tent pals, canteen loungers, 
Officers of the guard, patrols, and Durham — 
Have attained the plains for solace, and am glad ! 
For I was once a yokel from the hills 
With a penchant for rhyme and Latin meters, 
So they have carried my body to this sheltering 
Laurel in the glen, and have equipped me 
With the crooked staff of a shepherd ■ — 

Even a poet without legs 
Has his usefulness ! 

The fragrant airs in dalliance 

Blow over miles of May — 

What soldier of this newer day 

Would not follow them, these little winds, 

These whispers from the Infinite that formerly 

Meant nothing, but now have many voices ? 

See the hogs, contented and at ease! 
Do you think there is no joy in observing 
Life, instead of Death ? 

[2] 



AFTER THE DAY 

There are horses at pasture, and cows grazing — 
What do they know of explosives ? 
Yet how many of these lie rotting 
On the fields of the fleur-de-lis ! 

In the distance, 

On the plowlands a whistling teamster 

Guides his sorrels, and across the fallow 

A jackass brays! What is more ridiculous than 

that jester. 
Whose ears, and strange noises, vainglorious 

laughs 
And useless prancings are so Hohenzollern ? 
With all his legs, who would change places with 

him? 
Not I ! His entertainments do not appeal to me — 
I would rather remain a poet. 

When fragile violets are plucked from their 
shadows in the forest, 

Knowing full well they will die in the sunlight. 

Do you think less of them for their inability 

To keep pace with the garish day ? 

This is my lonely predicabient. May I feel how- 
ever, 

On the one theory that flowers about to die 

Are nevertheless welcome — 

[3] 



AFTER THE DAY 

My thoughts may please you, like violets in a 

vase 
During their little hour! 

Yet were not all these particulars in my land- 
scape 
Meant for you and me ? 

When the fresh blossoms of clover, dew- 
besprent and young, 
Upturn their purple harvest to the skies and 

glowing insects, 
Do they not smile at heaven. 
And at you and me, as well as the butterflies ? 
But yesterday a troop of bees 
Maneuvered across the perfumed grasses 
Laden with the spoils of their campaign — 
And I had wished all booty 
Were as sweet ! 

When a lark with melodious acclaim 
Soars through the dawning clouds. 
Is it not to awaken me, as well as you ? 

These are my consolations ! 
Here, watching silent acres 
Verdant from the tears of stars, 

[4] 



AFTER THE DAY 

And cool meadows reaching from me 

Through emerald seas, 

Sheep browsing, and the far murmur of reeds 

By a winding river — 

All of these are better awards for service 

Than a medal of bronze, 

Or a special dispensation from the Pope. 

They were better, and meant more, 

Before I enlisted. 

I had my feet, 

Which I remember were considered necessary at 

the time — 
Encased in strong military boots ; my jeans were 
Thrown aside by the sergeant. Thereupon a 

smart uniform 
Was fitted to my figure. The sunburned, straw 

sombrero 
Now protecting my ears became a felt hat with 

tassels, 
And I was dubbed a * ' recruit, ' ' 
Which is the nucleus of a soldier. 

So my dreams 

Of threshing hay, and the golden glory of the 
moon 

[5] 



AFTER THE DAY 

Rising at dayfall over burnished waves of 

grain — 
Were shattered by deracinating cannon, 
And ''shell shock" has eclipsed the vision of old 

summers. 

I saw a raven fly over sleeping battlefields 
In the gray mists of dawn, and there was a glow 
On its wing, as the passing night 
Draped in malignant shadows the last vestige 
Of its flight. I shuddered when this occurred, 
Because it forboded the dark couriers of the 
Future. 

All the rhymes of my boyhood rattled together 

Like the discord of foreign brasses, 

The bugler no longer tongued decasyllabically, 

And I became a strange creature in the ranks 

Continuing to fall out of step 

Without apparent reason; 

If I had said 

The cause was in my soul 

They would have laughed at me, 

And called it a ''pun" — 

Which, in literature, is perpetrated by a slacker. 

[6] 



AFTER THE DAY 

I have been in service, deep into it, 
Forgetting all but my country, and risking all 
As I would do again ; but I have seen 
The body of a poet in Flanders, and I know 
There were words stopped in his mouth 
That could herald peace, and eloquence 
Died in his veins, with beauty's vaster meanings. 
There were exaltations unattained, achievements 

locked 
On his pale lips, and songs ineffable 
Forever stilled. I am aware of this, for there 

was a whirr 
As of ghostly pinions heard thundering afar 
By several comrades, when they approached his 

remains 
Clinging to the wire entanglements 
Above our trenches. 

A soldier who has fought 

Against the offensive called Death comes face to 

face 
"With Poetry, as a spirit does its Maker. 

If you doubt these morals wrought from No 

Man's Land, 
Let the gaunt survivors of battlefields 
Tell their stories ! 

[7] 



AFTER THE DAY 

Ah, there shall be heartrending pity then, 
Commingled with that anguish all animals must 

feel 
When hunted down, for no wrong-doing 
Save the insolence of Life. 

There shall be mystery, and romance. 
Grand sacrifice, and martyrdom recounted, 
And what empyreal glory men experience 
In the flying havoc of war ! 

Let the wounded tell of their bleeding, 

And the hush of silence closing in on them ; 

Speak to a convalescent aviator, for instance, 

A birdman who has heard 

The eagle scream his triumph from the skies — 

Ask him to recall the long afternoons, bound in 

cotton and gauze. 
The gassed maniacs crying in cots. 
And those faithful soothsayers, the nurses. 
Moving so carefully, so quietly ! 

When a nurse smiles 
One never knows whether it is a rule 
Of the Red Cross, or the Eternal Feminine 
Striving to conceal a multitude of griefs. 
Knowing there is no room for laughter 
In all that desolation. 

[8] 



AFTER THE DAY 

Would that the splendid dead 
Could divulge their adventures — 
Reveal the immutable secrets of God, 
And dwell no more in unknown, platonic 
heights ! 

There were fine tales made for children. 

On the flaming fields of France : 

Tales of cutthroats, and merciless barbarism, 

Of robbery, pillage and destruction ; 

Yarns of strange murders committed at sea 

By men who strove to win great wars 

By drowning mothers, and speeding infants 

heavenward 
Before their time. Then will follow glorious 

narrative. 
And how most famous Admirals forbade 
The encircling oceans to these brigands of the 

deep. 
While strong, sabred veterans, scarred by many 

trials, 
Hurled millions of crusaders over there ! 

I have heard the lusty, silver shouting 
Of a regiment cruising Eastward: "Free- 
dom!"— 

[9] 



AFTER THE DAY 

0, that was a battle cry; and I was there, 
All of me, to make the world safe for Democracy ! 

Now come the last scenes of all: 

Their settings are of gray sunsets. 

With streaks of red, to light the naves 

Of famous cathedrals, and cities old in story. 

Drifts of smoke roll through the village streets 

Commingling the secret souls of men 

Like incense curling from twilight tapers 

Into the mauve beyond ! Thus you will have 

Before your mind's eye a picture 

No artist would dare to paint, and no writer 

Shall ever describe — 

Only a wounded soldier screaming in the dark 

Has ever seen these things, and you, and you. 

Will be able to see them only in his eyes ! 

So all shall come to know some day 
That physical deprivation 
Is not too heavy a burden to carry 
For having gone over the trenches 
In France ! 

L'Envoi 
Even a poet without legs 
Has his usefulness. 

[ 10 ] 



AFTER THE DAY 



Raoul's Last Nocturne 

MUSICIANS ! 
Let me tell you the story of Raoul 
The violinist — 

Gun-wadder of the 144th Field Artillery 
The good soldier, 
The violinist ! 

It was late 

In the Argonne forest, 

And he was playing a quaint air of Persia ; 

Surely, you remember it : 

''0 moon of my delight, that 
knows no wane — " 

The trees drew closer 

While we listened. 

And the wood-wind's breath 

Fell languishing 

In the arms of the shadowed branches. 

Arias from many an outlander's retreat 
Lulled the gloaming 

[11] 



AFTER THE DAY 

With dulcet cadences of peace, 

And the sun had gone 

In gorgeous conflagration 

Behind the smoking battlements of France. 

He raised his antique instrument and bow, 
Standing at ease against the barricade; 
And we, so tired of strife 
Were gathered there 
To hear the strange tales 
Fashioned by his Art. 

Still ! A moment hesitant, 

And then on slow wings lilting 

By wistful strains 

And semblances obscure 

He struck some prelude 

Kindred to the hour. 

And drew a thousand visions from the Dark. 

Awhile he stood. 

Improvising themes on happy valleys. 

Pastorals, and sylvan inference. 

When hold! The trees — 

Were those the trees of Argonne ? 

Nay ? Then, say — 

[12] 



AFTER THE DAY 

Whence came that fragrance of Sierran air, 
That westering, deep draught from overseas? 



Before our eyes 

The purple ranges loomed. 

And snow-clad mountains thrilling to the stars ! 

We found ourselves in canyons 

Deep, and crimsoning aflame ; 

Were lost on dim slopes 

Where the cedar grieves — 

And roamed beneath the confidence of pines ! 

We heard the primal moon-song of coyotes, 

Saw gaunt shadows 

Creeping on the mesa^ — 

Saw camp fires 

Gleaming through the dusk. . . . 

Heard the requiem of rain 
Across the sage ! 

We saw him swayed 

Through those insistencies 

Conferred by Self, impassionate and sad ; 

His was a message 

[13] 



AFTER THE DAY 

Stirred in lyric shades 
For us alone ^ — 

It was like the presence 

Of some furtive Soul 

Searching the wide, white heavens 

For its mate, 

And all the plaintive yearning 

Of the strings, 

Rose in answer 

To our lonely hearts ! 

We lived, and died. 
And lo. . . . 

— awake in houriis 
Beyond all present understanding : 

We hear the early carols of Aidenn 

Hear the matins 

Of orioles homing in Eolian dawns. 

Lydian measures, 

Heedless of the moment — 

And melodies exotic 

Follow fugues 

Hushed hy the gloom of Ages; 

[14] 



AFTER THE DAY 

We are in silent wonder of that man 

Who can with subtle fingers 

And his how 

Draw poignant meanings 

From, the wilderness. 

On meads untenanted 

By graves — 

Peal chords of April's green gladness! 

Where the harvest, weary ox-wain creaked. 

Our swart artillery 

Scars the tongueless sod; 

And in and out their wheels 

Dark poppies hlow — 

And over them 

Marauding hirds go by! 

Pandean pipes 

Forgotten in the glades 

Rejoice once more 

Through the drear solitude of Argonne. 

And ive stay 

Like a gathering of Bacchanalian gods 

Hearing the wine-songs 

Of old Arcady! 

[15] 



AFTER THE DAY 

Slender reeds 

In favored places wrought, 

Spoke of a spell 

Transmuted by the elves 

That men may seek forever 

To no end; 

So touched by lips 

All wanton wooed, and wild. 

They make young lilies 

Tremulous at eve, 

When every lolling lotus 

On the lake 

Yearns for somnolent dews! 

We heard soft flutes 

Ineffable, and sweet. 

And trolls their pretty signals trumpeting; 

Satyrs insubordinate, and sprites 

Laughing unduly • — 

And many gnomes cavorting out of ranks! 

We heard the dryad's intimate tattoo. 

And sylphic fifes 

Blown faintly from the hills. . . . 

We heard their tiny timbrels 
At dayfall, 

[16] 



AFTER THE DAY 

So seeking, 

By articulated wile and rustic whim, 

To captivate the iris-hidden streams — 

With murmurous delight 

To fascinate 

Those vales of startled Echo 

Where tremble and begins 

The intimation of Elysian Song. 

Adagios complained from dawn to dawn 

Against the rude reluctances of Night; 

There too. Andantes 

Holding trysts celestially remote — 

Sung with their certain diffidence, aspiring 

Toward the pale ports of the Pleides. 

While over all, in paens, on, and on, 

Like some vast oratorio 

The exultant orbs 

Of Evening communed 

In far, illusive music 

Of the Spheres. 

So did the bleak, unhallowed wood 
Avail surcease enchanting 
From the gyves of war, 

[17] 



AFTER THE DAY 

And we were lead by vagrant Genius 

To those far heights 

That mightily divide 

The sightless from the Sight. 

We were his true, attentive audience 

The while he wove 

A myriad rhapsodies 

Into the loom of one Tonality; 

Calling rare voices 

From the East, 

And North, and South, 

And "West, in motives blent 

From out the singing gardens of the World. 

^^What was that, Sergeant? 

*'Nothmg, you fool! 

Let him play! 

Some leaves 

Scattered by a random shot; 

The guns of our friend, the Enemy 

Are speeding 

Dispatch hearers to Mars! 

Never mind — 

Let him play!" 

[18] 



AFTER THE DAY 

Then in a surge of minor harmony 

It seemed his bow swept suddenly to tears 

We caught 

The secret pleadings of salt tides, 

And that sadness 

In the ocean's elegies; 

So came dreams Holy, 

And glimpses 

Lost in sleep 

Of ancient galleons 

On the farthest main. 

Shrouded argosies 

At anchor — 

The surf booming 

On shores unknown. . . . 

Coasts storm-crumbled, 

And cliffs 

Where the gray morn breaks ; 

The heave of an ofifing 
Swelling, sweeping; 
Combers crashing. 
Foaming, flowing- — 

[19] 



AFTER THE DAY 

Then mist-ridden crests, 
And a drifting spar . . . 
And the sea's face 
Flung with spray! 

You who have prayed 

When the mad typhoon 

Gnashed its teeth 

In the biting gale- — 

You who have heard 

Most tortured waves 

Cry out to the frenzied skies — 

You would have plunged 

Through those wild waters, 

Wilder yet with flood 

Of Sound tempestuous; 

You would have understood, somehow, 

While he played. . . . 

You who have known 

The rimrock ways. 

And the trails of the unbought West 

Who have staked your bivouac 

In the heart of the hills, or have closed 

Your lids on the desert's loneliness, 

And the long twilight, on the cherished plains 

[20] 



AFTER THE DAY 

In the trove of Youth 's lost years — 

You would have thought 

Of those untrammeled haunts 

So far from Argonne (Christ, how far!) 

And yet so near 

To something in your souls; 

You would have listened 

"While he played, 

Your lips mute and your throat 

In sorrow locked • — 

While the eyes of comrades 

And your own 

Brimmed full with memories! 

'^Sergeant! What has happened? 

Good God! My shoulder, . . . 

Blood . . . nothing . . . hut . . . hlood . 

^^Raoul! Where are youf 
Raoul — " 

''Shut lip, you fool! 
He was interrupted 
By one of Fritz's shells; 
I found his helmet 

[21] 



AFTER THE DAY 



A few moments ago 

And here, 

You may have it — 

A fragment 
Of his fiddler' 



[22] 



AFTER THE DAY 



I 



The Shell Crater 

HAD been wandering 
Through the forest of Epinoy 



And in the wild, mid region of my walk 

I paused beside a shell crater. 

It had filled 

With turgid downpour, drainage, and the dew 

From silent mounds, unnumbered and unnamed. 

It resembled the visage of a tarn. 

Over which a cold moon rising, traced 

Most strange, fantastic figures; 

And the trees of Epinoy 

Sighed close to the mouth of the crater. 

A voice 

Fell through the wistful wood. 

It was indistinct. 

And not from the branches; 

It was low. 

Like the lament of a spirit. . . . 

[23] 



AFTER THE DAY 

Long I paced, long 
In the drifting mists, 
Alone, in the Silence. 

Nothing 

Was distinguishable there, 

Nothing beyond a desolation 

On the water — 

Nothing save those figures, made fantastic 

By the moon's saifronic glaze. 

Then I glanced 
Above the crater — 
And saw that the trees of Epinoy 
Swayed with a dark unrest. 
Whereat, I concluded the voice 
Was a sadness on the wind; 
Or some sylvan grief 
Such as woodlands know 
When the last leaves die — 
When the fronds fall, fluttering 
From their gnarled arms! 

But the sigh continued, like the voice 
Of a spirit lamenting. 

[24] 



AFTER THE DAY 

Finally, the surface of the tarn 

Stirred by the late insistence of the breeze - 

Wrinkled its visage 

And danced, with a melancholy rhythm, 

Almost in trend, I fancied 

To the whisper of its shadows; 

While the moon, shone solemnly 

And cold! 

Then a far thunder reverberated 
— It was nocturnal canonading 
From artillerists unknown — 

Swiftly, the red-tongued lightning 

Licked skyward, its sudden prongs 

Stabbed the trees of Epinoy — 

And their limbs, their bereaved branches 

Groaned from wounds inflicted by the storm; 

And there was a multitude of sighs. 

Leaning forward, striving to discern 

What sorrow upward welled 

From the crater — 

To my terror, I beheld 

The haggard features of a soldier. 

His drenched hair 

[25] 



AFTER THE DAY 

Lapped by the undulations, 

Writhed, like kelp around his forehead; 

And the lips were parted 

As though his soul had flown 

While struggling to articulate 

Some unrequited prayer! A glimpse — 

And the chill waters of the tarn 

Closed over him forever. 

The surface 

Resumed its sullen languor — 

The winds 

Abated utterly, and the trees 

Of Epinoy communed no more, 

Save in the low, least murmurs 

Of a forest. 

I had been wandering, 

And in the wild, mid region of my walk 

This incident occurred; 

Yet so surely as God 

Lets me tell you, 

I saw naught hut mine own reflection 

In the crater! 



[26] 



AFTER THE DAY 



Before Cambrai 

A SHARPSHOOTER, before the taking of 
Cambrai 
Aimed carefully at my silhouette, while I stood 
On sentinel duty, under the stars. 

His bullet tore through one eye and out of the 
other — 

So now, when lately the moon 

Mounts heavenward, and the myriad constella- 
tions 

Look down from their undaunted heights, 

I wonder if they see, in that vast darkness of 
theirs, 

Any more than one whose individual night 

Has closed him from them forever ! 

I have walked forth on June mornings, 
When the great orb of the Sun 
Observed every idle cloud in passing; 
I have turned my face up to those aerial 
meadows, 

[27] 



AFTER THE DAY 

Marveling if all the vague translucencies of Day 
Were akin to them, as utter blackness 
Is to me, or if the dews of dawn 
Are ever like the blindness of tears ! 

Yet to one who dwells in shadow 

There comes, sooner or later, 

A reverence for the depths of things; 

And I have had such visions 

That few with eyes can know — 

Learned of the inner sources that illume. 

And soothed my hours with opalescent dreams! 

There is a steadfast gleaming 

In the lightness of my heart, 

And I have seen the beacon of my Soul. 



[28] 



AFTER THE DAY 



Le Poilu 

DRENCHED to the skin, knee-deep in mud, 
Disheartened, all but dead — 
This was the condition, most pitiable and true, 
Of a small detachment at the Mame. 
Among them, yet not one of a group, 
But standing aside (as I have noticed heroes do), 
Was a young, French guardsman. 

They were anxious, those exhausted defenders. 
And their faces twitched from the torment of 

suspense; 
Some were chilled by long exposure, 
Others flushed with fever. 
All were anxious, these bleeding patriots. 
And most of all, the young French guardsman, 
As he stood in the gathering shadows 
Watching every slight maneuvre of the enemy 
Through a space between the trench-sacks. 

After a lapse of silence, he whispered something : 
It was in no way a signal, 
And would have aroused little attention 
Were it not for the restive fervor of the man 
And that strange gaze in his eyes — 

[29] 



AFTER THE DAY 

As he stood in the gathering shadows 
Watching between the trench-sacks. 

''What did he say?" ventured one. 
"Look at his haggard features!" said another. 
"I know the type; he will die fighting!" con- 
cluded a third. 
And all of his tired comrades, 
Peered at the young French guardsman. 

Again his lips moved: 

''They shall not pass!" he breathed; 

And the winds of evening caught that phrase, 

Whirling it like a leaf at twilight 

Into the heart of France ! 

You have already heard it, 

It has become familiar to you 

Afar East ; and to you, afar West — 

And to the clans of the North, 

And to the tribes of the South. 

But no one knows that a young French guards- 
man 

Was first to utter those words, drenched to the 
skin, 

Knee-deep in mud, disheartened, all but dead — 

As he stood in the gathering shadows, 

In the grim dusk of the Marne. 

[30] 



AFTER THE DAY 



Departure 

rpAREWELL! The path I take 
JL^ May have a scarlet ending. 
Or blaze in a wide, wild radiance 
Unknown to us; 
Nevertheless, farewell! 

My knapsack is adjusted — 
All the implements of war 
Are strapped to my shoulders, 
And on my heart rides a stone 
To balance these securely. 

The path I take 

May have a scarlet ending — 

Or lie under gold, rich skies 

Spun marvellously 

Of dawns, and days, and darks 

In splendor flung 

With glory unsurmised! 

Yet you will be dreamed of there, 

And I 

Shall have fine memories of mirth, 

[31] 



AFTER THE DAY 

Of sudden caresses 

And the low-mooned bayou, 

All holy ^Yith quiet, and your whispers ! 

Farewell! The path I take 

Leads on to bleeding valleys 

Shrapnel gashed, and furtive ivith the ghosts 

Of many travellers. . . . 

My boots are oiled for service, 
My helmet is lustrous and new; 
My rifle's fit, and the flags 
Untattered where I go ^ — 

But if a moveless, strange black horror 

Comes uprushing to my eyes, 

And I am gone 

Into the enduring dusts from you — 

Yet will I take your image far with me. 

Remembering 

Your undaunted loneness, and your smile. 

And some night 

You will find me in your arms. 

Pleading — 

For the eventual white flame 

Of your lips! 

[32] 



AFTER THE DAY 



Antoine, the Birdman 

ANTOINE was an aviator 
Before the storming of Ypres. 
But after that day, when he fell from the 

clouds — 
He assumed another role, 
And was known as an invalid 
At the base Hospital. 

Some terror of the altitudes 

Deranged his mind, , 

Lucky fellow though he was — 

To have caught his plane 

In a draught of air 

One sheer league from the soil ! 

I recall at the time 

How we rushed to congratulate him, 

But he was gone • — 

A strange, sad creature 

Looked at us instead, regarded us queerly 

As we lead him away by the arm. 

[33] 



AFTER THE DAY 

After a few days 

We noticed he continually 

Referred to himself as a ''bird" 

And insisted with surprising eloquence 

That we need only to ' ' exert our Will ' ' 

To fly. Poor Antoine — 

The mania of the heights 

Had gripped him surely, 

And though we sought to pacify his soul 

We knew nevertheless, we knew! 

He argued 

With rare ingenuity r- 

Saying an eagle had explained matters 

Above the clouds! 

An alert, and dapper aviator 

Was Antoine: — 

Small, wiry of limb. 

And agile, to a degree scarcely human. 

His nose was aquiline. 

Like a hawk's- — 

And in the quick comprehension of his gaze 

He seemed to take 

A birdseye view of us. . . . 

[34] 



AFTER THE DAY 

After his accident 

He walked no more, 

But hopped, as it were, 

From place to place 

With his arms crooked at the elbow •. — 

Like pinions. 

His voice was shrill, 

And the words he used 

Were chirped across the veranda 

From his perch 

On the wide, porch railing. 

It all happened last night — 

And I shudder now, to divulge this information 

Someone had conceived the idea 

Of a masquerade for our convalescents. 

Those not too incapacitated 

Had nurses for their partners. 

Visitors, and such; 

While others of us, in chairs 

And on crutches, watched the dancers. 

Suddenly the room 

Was darkened by a sweeping Shadow ; — 

[35] 



AFTER THE DAY 

And lo, Antoine the birdman 

Had made his entrance, garbed as a falcon ! 

The costume was excellent • — 

Huge, ebony wings 

Extended celestially 

Down from his shoulders. 

And from the feet (that were claws) 

Upward, his body was encased 

In glistening, black feathers. 

His eyes 

Shone over the beak of him 

Like a condor's, burning 

With malignant lustre; 

And so amazing was the impression he made, 

So bizzarre, so true, so in keeping with his 

mind — 
That the unexpected appearance, 
Like an apparition silencing us a moment 
By the shadow cast, 
Was as suddenly greeted 
With long, and sincere applause. 

Thereat, pluming himself. 

He stepped sedately to the centre of the hall 

[36] 



AFTER THE DAY 

And claimed, for his first dance 
The Chaplain's daughter. 

This was not madness — 

It was genius! 

She had come 

Dressed as a canary, 

A timid, yellow thing ; a small 

Winsome maid, a ''bird" girl 

Fluttering lightly 

Over the shining surface of the floor. 

The music of a waltz began, 

And to its lilting measures swiftly 

Swooping, whirling, round and round 

They glided, scarcely touching 

The tips of their toes to the wax. 

Louder sounded the violins, 

Wilder encircling 

The canary and the falcon flew, 

Until the panel doors 

Blew open at a gust of wind — 

Whereupon, with startling decision 

He clutched her in his claws 

And darted away, through the Night. 

[37] 



AFTER THE DAY 

"Splendid!" we applauded; 
*'A superb effect — " 

But the Chaplain 

Was pale, and we suppressed 

Our approval, subdued 

Our cheering, wondering why — 

Then a wild fear 

Leaped in our hearts 

With the realization that he was mad — 

And the cliffs 

A stone's throw away! 

The remembrance 

Of his insistent argument 

That flying 

Was an ability of the Will 

Came to us, as we saw his figure 

Swallowed up by the gathering darkness ; 

Came to us as we watched him 

Half hopping, half soaring, 

In flight over the intermediate grasses — 

Making for the promontory. 

A chorus of cries arose • — 

And all of us, on sticks, and crutches, 

[38] 



AFTER THE DAY 

In wheel-chairs, and rockers, 

Stumbled, fell, limped, rushed 

With united impulse 

After the fleeing falcon, with one thought 

To save the little canary 

Palpitating, trembling, helpless in his talons! 

The edge of the cliff was reached 
With nothing there, and all 
Our efforts were in vain. 

Hesitating, some of us imagined 
We discerned a bleeding, inert mass 
On the far rocks below — 

And some who gazed into the sky- 
Thought they heard 
Growing fainter, and fainter. 
The whirr of enormous wings. . . . 



[39] 



AFTER THE DAY 



Found in a Diary 

I AM hiding in a shell-hole. 
There is no possibility of escape. For hours 
The whining missils overhead 
Have told me that ! 

Yet Hope, like the last drop in a canteen, 
Has made it easier to wait. ... 

Sooner or later, a spray of shrapnel 

Will end it all ; 

That howitzer's puff of smoke in the clearing' — 

Will it offer some delectable of Death ? 

Or one of those mortars, 

Two hundred yards away. . . . 

A day, a night, another day, and now 

The fingers of dusk are closing around me — 

They are creeping over this waste of mud, and 

debris, 
They are moving, they are reaching for me! 

[40] 



AFTER THE DAY 

A shadow is an evil thing, 
And there is an uncouth leer 
In the eyes of Evening. 

The ''seventy-fives" "whizzbangs" 

"Skodas" "eighty-eights" 

' ' Nine-twos ' ' — 

All of these scream by, 

Sobbing to themselves, yauping to one another 

For a day, a night, and a day ! 

Suppose one should spurt through my skull, sud- 
denly, 
Blast a shoulder off. 
Tear my legs to shreds, or plow 
An exit through my lungs ■ — 

Yet after some such shattering 

I might live; Jesus! 

I might ivant to live. . . . 

No! no! no! These hours of waiting 

Have earned me more than that! 

I am entitled to my throw of the dice — 

I deserve to die, 

I have a right to die! 

[41] 



AFTER THE DAY 

Ah, let me be ! 

Why do you follow me through the air, 

You shrieking, weeping creatures — 

Do you want to find me, gash me, grind me 

Into the drifts, and the dusts? 

Why do you cry when you pass me. . . . 

Does such rude traveling hurt lead? 

I wonder if it grieves iron 

To disturb the blameless breeze — 

I wonder if it pains iron 

To hiss through a fair, West wind! 

Should I be hit, I would not survive ; — 
(Something in me rebels at the thought of sur- 
viving ! ) 
It might come by any direction. 
Or be hurled earthward, from the clouds. 

Would you want to be wounded, unexpectedly? 

No man does! 

The thing to do is to arrange for death. 

To make careful preparation. . . . 

My bayonet is very sharp; it could fit in my 
chest, to the hilt. . . . 

[42] 



AFTER THE DAY 

Suppose some damned explosive found me 

here. . . . 
The shock, the suddenness, the utter agony, 
From something to nothing, in one blinding 

instant ! 

No man would wait for that • — 
No man can wait for that ! 

So why should I delay matters? 

Why should I be waiting 
When there is no chance. 
No way of escape from here . . . 
And should I rise, I would fall! 

A day, a night, another day, and now . . . 

My bayonet is very sharp ! 

It could fit in my chest, to the hilt — 

And if it does not, some Hun 's hot bullet will. . . . 

Who wants to be torn, from limb to limb, 

By a Hun's infernal device — 

Who would wait to be shot 

When your own bayonet is clean, and keen ? 

God! I can stand it no longer — 

The terror of a midnight mad with flame. 

The fear of another morning. . . . 

[43] 



AFTER THE DAY 

There! 

I have plunged it . . . 

Fitted it . . . in my chest . . . to the hilt! 

Yoio will say I ivas afraid . . . to . . , die . 
Afraid to die , . . all suddenly . . . to . . . die 
1 was . . . afraid . . . to . . . live . . . 
/ . . . was . . . afraid . . . 
To. . . die! 



[44] 



AFTER THE DAY 



Soldier, Answer Me! 

SOLDIER, answer me! 
What are you fighting for? 
Is it the archaic joy of battle 
Or the conceit of arms; 
Is it a desire to flaunt your courage 
In the face of Providence, 
Is it for the bauble of Popularity? 

It is some of these things, Man, 

But most of all 

It is an heritage in my heart 

That stirs 

At the wild roll of drums! 

Soldier, answer me ! 

What are you bleeding for? 

Is it a ruse to dodge the slings of Fate 

Is it a chance you take 

In the game of War — 

Is it a play 

For the indulgence of a contrite world; 

[45] 



AFTER THE DAY 

Is it a profanation of the body 
For the sake of the Soul? 

It is some of these things, Man, 

But most of all. 

It is a glad awakening 

At the cry of bugles! 

Soldier, answer me! 

What are you dying for? 

Is it to justify the error 

Of politicians, 

Is it to glorify some leader — 

Is it a satiation 

At the vain pursuits, and mockeries of men; 

Are you indulgent only to yourself. 

Having no desire to share 

Your life with others • — 

Do you long for the solid comfort 

Of a grave? 

Jt is some of these things, Man, 

But most of all 

It is because I was horn 

On the soil of my forefathers; 

I am a young custodian 

[46] 



AFTER THE DAY 



Of their lands. 
War is the privilege 
Of my race — 
Birth gave it me, 
And Death 
Will not take it away! 



147] 



AFTER THE DAY 



Pere Lachaise 

YOU, who have been to France 
While in Paris 
Did you go to the cemetery 
Of Pere Lachaise? 

On entering, 

Up the cypress avenue 

To the "Monument of the Dead" 

By Bartholome, 

Do you recall the figures 

Full of pathos 

On that sarcophagus of limestone? 

They represent Humanity 

Pressing forward 

To the door of the tomb! 

That marble chapel 
Erected to Thiers — 
And the tribute 
To Abelard and Heloise! 
Under a Gothic canopy 

[48] 



AFTER THE DAY 

Those statues are shaded, 
Symbolizing the love and misfortune 
Of two whose plight 
Has been a theme 
For many poets. 

Here is the last, surviving evidence 
Of famous authors, 
Dramatists, and composers — 
Remembered by an image, 
A medallion, or a bust; 
And within the gloom 
Of every shrouded thing 
A moral lies ! 

It is fair to see 

With what fine reverence the French 

Honor their men and women 

Of genius, whose work 

Has made the immortality 

Of a Nation. 

Here, where the quaking aspen 
Trembles windward, 
And the yew plays, quietly, 
(Greener, far, than those 

[49] 



AFTER THE DAY 

On the Champs Elysees!) 
Repose the dreamers 
Of unburied Science, 
Philosophy, and Art! 

So musing, on all 

That is, or was ■ — 

And all 

That shall not be again, 

I realized (as my footfall 

Crashed the future of a flower!) 

How each solitary path 

Holds the mould of men whose fame 

Survives them, 

And of women more beautiful 

Than many passing in the sun. 

And I saw, too, 

The mounds of children 

Whose cheeks alas, held 

No sententious tinge 

Of their dawns, nor any glimmering 

From those far gates where silently 

The shadows come, and go! 

You, on furlough from Chateau Thierry 
Did no message come to you, 

[50] 



AFTER THE DAY 

Born on the restive airs — 

None of their words, no answer 

To stir your heart's lone questioning? 

I heard young zephyrs 
Holding secrets here — 

And so arose a murmuring at dusk 

That told of Kings 

Who found antiquity 

One everlasting Night; 

And some of Thought's nobility 

Had passed, 

And those who searched Within — 

Whereat the world 

Knew them no longer ! 

These souls were great. 

And each for greatness sued — 

Yet one by one they faltered on the Way 

And their voices 

Are become nocturnal echoes, flung 

From star to star. 

Some toilers gain late laurels 
For their pain; 

[51] 



AFTER THE DAY 

Yet when Success 

Its bounty would bestow, 

Time clutches for the wreath ■ — 

And uses it 

To decorate a tomb! 

I think there is no grief 

So fathomless 

As the least lily 

Pleading by a wall; 

Nor anything 

More sad than vines 

Clinging to an old friend's monument. 

They seem to have their transitory moments, 
Their unfamiliar, small ambitions, 
Seeking from enclasped granite 
Some eminence, there to gaze 
Upon the aspect of Eternity. 

What more could you attain. 

Or these poor, inert mortals ? 

The smallest fern 

Does well, 

And they fared ill; and you also 

Are but a minion 

Of Life's old disasters. 

[52] 



AFTER THE DAY 

0, men of Hope 
And men of urging Will ! 
And you who dwell 
In Wisdom's halls, 
So lonely, and so high ! 

There is no leaf 
Inferior to you — 

And where your consecrated deeds abide, 

Your prejudice, and pride, 

And where your votive tapers flare 

Against the passing Dark ; 

Age will beckon with a withered finger - 

Wherever you are 

Its cold insistency will be. . . . 

On the final pyres 

No sacrifice 

Will answer for your Self, 

No other heart 

Lie in your cerements! 

But fruitage of the twilight 

Are men's souls, 

And though the race be hard 

[53] 



AFTER THE DAY 

The winning near, or far, 

A graveyard claims each weary contestant. 

If you hesitate, doubting 

Because I was afraid at Cantigny ■ — 

Go to the resting place 

Of those 

From whom j^ou are descended; 

Listen to the evening's searching breeze 

When it drifts 

Into sepulchres, and out again. 

When it curls under the eaves of dark 
mausoleums 

And departs 

With a far whisper of despair. . . . 

If you understand its errand. 

If you know what it seeks, and where it goes — 

You will not be forgotten. 



[54] 



AFTER THE DAY 



Croix De Guerre 

FROM fields of carnage 
I brought her souvenirs: 
A beryl signet 
Torn from one the Emperor 
Had honored ; 

Also, a case of old Damascus 
And some trifles 
Gathered at twilight 
From those 
Whose throats were stopped in dust. 

^'But these are not treasures/' she said; 

*^To have value 

They must he gems of fire!'' 

Then, hesitating, 

I displayed 

The small, bronze croix de guerre 

With which a famous man 

Had decorated me, 

Saying it was for a little thing I did 

At Chalons. 

[55] 



AFTER THE DAY 

''But it is not of gold/^ she replied; 
And alas, the rihhon is stained!" 

Whereat I went away 

Thinking these unfit presents for the one 
I loved. 

And for hours 

I wandered through the streets 

Until someone 

Touched my arm in the shadows : 

''That medal on your chest, mon cherie — 
Tell me about it!^' 

A long time she listened, 

And that night 

I entered the door of Happiness. 



[56] 



AFTER THE DAY 



Wounded 

SING me a song, Fleurette! 
I have taken the medicine 
As Messieur le Docteur 
Prescribed it — 
And my pain . . . my pain . . . is sleeping!" 

* ' Bien, cherie ! 

I know a little French one, 

Taught me in the Convent of the Sacre Coeur: 

' 'Petals falling, 
Breezes calling 
Blossoms from the grain; 

Lilies sighing 
Violets crying — 
Weeping in the rain ! 

The moon an incense-breathing censer swings 
Across the drowsy foliage of Night — 
0, by the casement sings a maiden, ! 

[57] 



AFTER THE DAY 

The winds from scented gardens pass, like wings 
Of many moths in strange, noctural flight — 
0, by the casement sings a maiden, 0! 

Her song is of the petals 

As they fall, 

Her voice is in the breezes 

As they call 

To blossoms from the grain, 

Lilies sighing 

Violets crying — 

And every heart soft weeping 

In the rain!" 

^'Very good, Fleurette. 

Now, if you will turn out the light — 

I believe I can rest for a while.' ^ 



[58] 



AFTER THE DAY 



A Whisper at the Gate 

** J LOVE you!' 

J. He would say, so often 
Under the trees by the garden gate; 
But he went to the front, Messieur. 
Only his ivords remain, 
Like the perfume of flowers that have fallen • — '^ 

I know the sorrow 

Of that peasant girl in Louvain — 

She was one 

Who had bade adieu forever 

To a valiant defender of France. 

'^ 'I love you!' 

He would say, so often 

Under the trees hy the garden gate — '' 

Whispering on the timorous air of night — 

How often have her words 

Strayed across our heartstrings ! 

How often do they stir the leaves of Yesterday 

And the blossoms of Today; 

[59] 



AFTER THE DAY 

From what dreaming vista 
Has that yearning gone away — 
Over what streams, confiding 
When the moon swings low. . . . 

It is the burden of the winds, 
And the sorrow of the sea ! 

'' '/ love your 

He would say, so often — ** 

Memory brought only that, 
And her heart fell, lost 
Like a rose 
In the Winter's blowing. 

'' 'I love you!'—'' 



[60] 



AFTER THE DAY 



The Albatross 

iSAW an albatross — 
Dead, and the shifting sands 
Sought to conceal 
This too presumptuous sorrow, 
Sought silently 

To so engulf it, that the passing stars 
Might shine ungrieved. 

For all men know 

The gray breath of t;he sea. 

Know the storm's wrath, and its courier 

That cries wild warning 

To the shores of morn. . . . 

I saw an albatross, 

Dead, swollen, slowly floundered 

By receding waters. I saw 

Its body; I lost 

That semblance of the dim, drenched heavens 

Urging from cliff to cloud above 

The unrest of the sea! 

[61] 



AFTER THE DAY 

I missed the white, gleaming wing 

Against my blue world; 

The calm eye and lone, liquescent lilt 

From opal crests; the dipping into these 

For sudden, silvered treasure — 

Revelling, rejoicing, reposing 

In the wind's wake; 

High feathering, low darting, 

All finally to soar 

Into arid silence, nightward seeking. 

Long had it flown, long before me 
Over the sad ocean, over the ruins 
Of many a yesterday. . . . 

I stood 

In mute reverence 

At that burial, by waters receding, 

Under the passing stars. 



[62] 



AFTER THE DAY 



Domesday 

WHEREUPON a flame 
Engulfed them, 
And our land 
Of long enchantment 
Crumbled under fire 
Terrific from retaliatory suns. 

In torrid vapors 

Broiled the seas and rivers of an outcast 
world. . . . 

Crawled they, rising like ebullient serpents, 
Seething, commingling, merging moonward, 
Leaping of red tongues, licking the spheres — 
Writhing perilously on high; 
Then rushed they down, in final cataracts, 
To the last, phantasmagoric Abyss. 

All pulseless were the tides, 
And tottering to silence 
Every avatar of Light : 

[63] 



AFTER THE DAY 

The welkin had no cloud, 
No mom its dewr — 

No tree found leaf 
And verdure was refused, 
And every bloom died unsought 
On the sedge, and bough, and vine. 

All heaven was abandoned ; 

The winds, 

Once many voiced, continuous, and fair 

Were fallen at hush — 

Oceans ceased to stir, 

And stagnant they lolled 

Untremulous against the shores of Night. 

Only a laughter, infinite and wild, 

Bang from the nocturnal peaks of Chaos. 

A laughter. 

Sardonic and convulsed 

With all the mad hyprocrisies of Time — 

Rolling from no special height, nor plain. 
Dismal, discorporate, wailing 
Ribald at the nothingness of Doom. 

[64] 



AFTER THE DAY 

There was no use for symphonies, and such, 
Nor letters, nor the protoplasmic scheme 
Of anything beneath the cindered stars. 

What with wild wars 
And devastated Hope 
The evidence of Man 
Had burned away; 

Contestless, ruined, insensate 
Was Creation ; 

Without our strange posterity — 
And impotent, and cold. 

The mirage of Life 

Had been, but was no more. 

A fatal, overwhelmmg Dark 

Prevailed, 

And in the dark, that Laughter! 



[65] 



AFTER THE DAY 



*Amerongen Castle 

PACING the garden 
Of Amerongen Castle, 
He walks continuously — 
Up and down the graveled pathways 
Of the grounds. 

Bowed in reflection, 

With his arms 

Clasped behind him ; 

Endless is his promenade — 

Walking up and down the graveled pathways 

Of Amerongen Castle. 

Peasants go clattering along 

The canal banks, 

Down the verdant dykes and dunes of Holland - 

Laughing a great deal in the sun, 

Contented, loquacious; 

But on the far side of the wall 
There is a man who does not laugh. 



"Amerongen" is a cryptic word, spelling One German. Re- 
arrange the letters, and see for yourself. 

[66] 



AFTER THE DAY 

Who paces only the gardens 
And who does not laugh. 

The sun goes down 
And the moon ascends, 
And the peasants 
Sing on the levee — 
On the silver waters 
The peasants are singing; 

But on the far side of the wall 
There is a man who does not sing, 
A man who walks 

The graveled paths of Amerongen — 
And who does not sing. 

Nothing is more continuous, incessant, and per- 
sistent 
Than his walking — 
Up and down, up and down. 
From this gate, on to that, 
From one wall to another. 

Never will the thoughts of him 
Still those footsteps for a moment, 
Nor stay 
The long march of his Conscience. 

[67] 



AFTER THE DAY 

And as he paces 

It is like a tread 

On the dead hearts of men — 

Treading with each step, treading 

On a heart ! 

Bowed in reflection, 

With his arms 

Clasped behind him — 

Over his brow comes a chilling, 

Comes a throbbing, so continuous, 

So incessant, and prolonged — 

Up and down the graveled pathways 

By Amerongen walls; 

There are many hearts to pace there, 
To account for, to absolve. 
On the Castle 's graveled pathways 
By Amerongen walls. . . . 

There are many steps to pace, 
Ere the final Step. 



[68] 



AFTER THE DAY 



The Sniper 



H 



E told me this yarn, like a schoolboy, 
While I bandaged his hand by the fire : 



*^ Bodies! That*s what they were — 

Five of us 

Took their dug-out in the morning; 

The fog 

Was heavy over Chalons, 

It wrapped the trenches in gray, 

Clung to the wires, and dripped 

From every broken tree. . . . 

We heard them laughing. 

And nobody can stand that, in the shivering 
dawn! 

Bind the gauze tightly, Sam, 
Never mind the salve — 

What's a thumb, more or less? 
I haven't used mine 
Since I was a baby; 

[69] 



AFTER THE DAY 

Aw, stop looking so seriously — 
It's a little thing! 

Crawling, scarcely hreathing, 

Stopping, continuing under the entanglements- 

So! Five grenades forward; 
Mud, and moans, then ^Kamerad!' 

Twenty of 'em, Sam, 
Cringed against the gunnies! 

It was easy work, we thought. 
And filed away, when — 

Well . . . what could I use it for? 
Thumbs up, thumbs down — 
Ha! ha! I guess I wasn't made to be 
A Vestal Virgin! 

We thought ive had 'em all, 

But a puff 

Came over the clearing — 

One of us 

Stumbled forward — 

Sudden blood 

Bubbled from his ears, 

And the sniper . . . had scored! 

[70] 



AFTER THE DAY 

^Nevermind, pal; he'll pay!' 
Again the puff, and a pang 
Somewhere shoulderward — 
But this time we saw his rifle 
Gleam against the ridge; 
Caught a glint of steel 
In a first, faint ray 
Of the sun! 

We 

Crouched, and waited. 

Bill's helmet on the end of a stick 

Was a good, decoy — 

The fool shot twice, then. 

Shells gone, and frightened, 

He stood up, raised his arms, and shouted 

As those had done whom we spared: 

'Kamerad!' ^Kamerad!' 

'Kamerad, he damned!' said Bill. 

So we pumped the fidl contents 

Of our automatics — 

Into his crumbling chest, into his rotten heart!" 

He told me this yarn, like a schoolboy, 
While I bandaged his hand by the fire. 

[71] 



AFTER THE DAY 



Passing in the Sun 

TODAY 
I saw them passing 
In the sun — 
The khakied ranks 
And regiments of War. 

I saw 

An urgent multitude 
Of friends, and the faces 
Of parents anticipating — 

I saw 

Eejoicing, hearted women 

And patient tears 

Lo, laughing in their eyes. . . . 

Today 

I saw them passing 

In the sun — 

The moon declining, and low vestal stars 

Beholden also, shone glimmering 

[72] 



AFTER THE DAY 

Down the flower-flung streets 
Gold garlanded, and silvern 
To the clatter of their feet. 

Today 
I saw — 
Somewhere he 
Was marching. . . . 

Dear Christ! 
Though the night 
Be nailed forever 
To my cross — 

Let his dawn 

Bleed white with wings ! 



[73] 



AFTER THE DAY 



The Aviator 

DUST, in clouds 
Envelop their machines, 
And the air burns, vibrating 
"With discordant cries — 

Orders 

From directing officers. 

Calls to linemen. 

Hurried explanations, a last shout 

To the machinist. Final commands — 

And then, farewell! 

Over the low, shuddering grasses 

His airplane jerks, jolting 

To the utmost endurance. 

He grips the wheel, plunging headlong. 

Suddenly a wind 

Lifts under the solitary man 

And lo. 

He is flying! 

[74] 



AFTER THE DAY 

On the wide sward 

Others are starting, and the sky 

Reverberates with throbbing hearts, 

With those strange, mechanical devices 

Beating on, and on, while their iron bosoms 

Heave and swell from the tumult 

Of a carbureted soul. ... 

Presently, the mists foregather 
Coming between. Gray waters 
Roll far beneath — 
All on the field, moments later 
Become gnats, and disappear. 

From a distance, the clutter of his companions 
Sounds to him through cool spaces; 
Soon the song of their metallic throats 
Merges into whispering — 
And is heard no more. 

Life itself, is such a coursing 
On lanes of azure — 
And we are all 
Solitary aviators! 

Only, in this world-long race 
One after another 

[75] 



AFTER THE DAY 

Is outdistanced 

By an ultimate few 

Who are themselves deserted 

In the final stretch — 

By one 

Who travels alone. 

Long ago they left him, 

The birdmen careening earthward — 

Onward he drives, feathering 
Through an icy, dim atmosphere. 

Into the farthest ocean, shot by arrows 
Of deepening shadow 
Falls the wounded sun. 

Illimitable night 

In mystery and silence. 

Closes around him — 

Onward he goes, onward, onward. 



[76] 



AFTER THE DAY 



Outriders of the Night 

COURSING the roads at dayfall, 
In the midmost dusk they pass — 
The outriders of the Night. 

I have seen them, 

If you ask me • — 

From the gray heights of Vimy Ridge 

I have seen them 

Riding in the dawn, 

And in the bleak immensities of Dark. 

My dreams 

Are fraught with spectral images — 

I see old citadels, and gates 

Of massive bronze unopened save to Kings; 

Whereat comes One 

According to the stars • — 

And lo, the locks, the idle bolts of Ages 

Fall asunder in the gloom! 

[77] 



AFTER THE DAY 

Who rides now, 

Those ancient lanes of France? 

Who strides the old, accustomed leagues 

With dim cavalry, betimes, 

Who leads the soldiery of other wars • — 

Whose whispers 

Mingle in the day's late winds, 

Whose armor is of shadow, whose eyes 

Are glowless in the evening's enterprise? 

She has entered Orleans, 

Mounted, at the head of many horsemen, she 

enters. . . . 

It is vespered twilight, 

And the bells 

Of phantom arches toll; 

They draw rein before the cathedral, 

Before those demolished walls • — 

That ruined pile 

Touched by no glint of sun, 

Nor any ray 

Prevailing its lost corridors. . . . 

For a long time 
They remain — 

[78] 



AFTER THE DAY 

While the shades 
Lengthen, creep up, up, 
With ghostly hands 
Entreating some reprisal 
For the dead! 

I have heard their hoof -beats 
In the silent, moon-dim valleys ; 
I have heard their chargers breathing . . . drink- 
ing slowly . . . 
By the cool waters of the Meuse. 

I have seen them 

Fleeing northward 

From the Somme, from the Marne : — 

And the peasants at Ypres 

Know them well, 

The outriders of the Night ! 

Those who dwell 

In gray huts 

By the sea • — 

Have felt the presence 

Of these tireless ones; 

The fisherfolk at Calais 

Will gather round you, and tell 

[79] 



AFTER THE DAY 

How the dunes are forever murmuring of them, 
And the airs, low-blowing shoreward. 

Toilers of the nets, and lighthouse guards 
Will speak of that darkest hour 
When Paris was at prayer — 
And what they heard, borne on the sudden 
wind. . . . 

Some call them the "angels" of the Marne 

And some are mute, and there are others 

With a fine glint in their eyes — 

As if they, too, 

Had seen sights, stranger than the gift of words 

Will ever bring to men. 

Coursing the roads at day fall 
In the midmost dusk they pass — 
The outriders of the Night. 



[80] 



AFTER THE DAY 



Le Strynge 

MINISTER, grimacing, 
^ Laughing in the night, 
You, on the balustrade of Notre Dame 
Leering over the gargoyles, 
From the parapet and eminence of Faith! 

You, faithless One ! 

Believing not, and brooding 

With quaint mendacity 

Over the lights, and shades, 

Over the pleasures, and the pain of Paris. 

Long have I regarded you, Strynge ! 

A pagan 

On the edifice of Christ; 

Unsought, unseeking: — 

Mocking the years, and the tears of us ! 

There is a strange, lack lustre in your eyes 
A cold, forboding cynicism 
On your grotesque lips. 

[81] 



AFTER THE DAY 

In their shadow 

What crawling minions pass, 

Below you, pass in and out of the Church ; 

Always crossing your shadow. 

Stepping into it, through it, out of it, and on. 

Always below you, blots of men 

In your shadow! Below 

The strange, lack lustre in your eyes — 

And the cynicism 

On your grotesque lips. 

Long have I regarded you, Strynge ! 

Unsought, unseeking — 

Mocking the years, and the tears of us. 

Are you not a pagan 
On the edifice of Christ? 

Are you waiting f 



[82] 



AFTER THE DAY 



Anarchy 

I SAW the statue of Liberty 
Looming against New York. 

I was a son of the plains, 
I believed in prophecies — 

And mine eyes brimmed 

As the visions faded, 

As our transport 

Cleaved the waters of the wide Atlantic. 

I am returning 

And there it is again. 

From my crutches I observe it — 

Colossal, strange, and menacing; 

Alas, is it Liberty? 

I see a wanton, wild hag leering there — 
Gaunt of figure, shrunken to despair, 
And draped in the old habiliments of Crime. 

[83] 



AFTER THE DAY 

From tlie drear sockets 

Of her eyes 

Glare the lamps of civilized Revolt, 

Within the pent clutch of her hand 

Smolders a bomb. . . . 

See that long, emaciated arm 

Uplifted through the gloom. 

And the torch 

Flaring its lurid challenge to the sky ! 



[84] 



AFTER THE DAY 



Post Mortem 

I AM become an inmate 
Of man 's ancient habitude ! 
Dead, with the aid of Krupp • — 
And a pale subaltern named Schnitzler. 

Maddened by the sting of his rifle, 
I flung my tent-ax deep in his chest. . 
But an automatic had something to say. 
So I am here. 

Dead ! And the stars are sentinels, 
Always constant, never failing. 
Hovering ever, ever gleaming 
Over my stark remains! 

My teeth . . . only my teeth 

Gleam back at them 

From the wide, Somme prairie. 



[85] 



AFTER THE DAY 



Court Martial 

(Guilty) 

NO one in the regiment 
Regards me as a deserter — 
But you know otherwise, 
My lonely one! 

I left you lately 
For the love of War, 
Honor became my mistress 
And a battlefield was our bed. 

I have been promoted for loyal conduct. 

And no one knows 

Nor thinks, nor cares 

For the broken camp, and the pledge we plighted 

Under the vines at home! 



[86] 



AFTER THE DAY 



Coup d'Etat 

PEACE! Ah, there's a word! 
Now tell me, you who juggle: 
Have those nimble necromancers at Versailles 
Made it a just peace, 
Or just peace ? 

This is no trick, I assure you; 

It's diplomacy! 

And by that you may see 

How a word divides 

The false aim from the true. 

Yet in such difference 
Lies our destiny. 



[87] 



AFTER THE DAY 



De Profundis 

THE world expected so much of me, 
That in desperate attempts 
To forget, 

My heart was pierced 
And disconsolate, 
My soul fled into the Night. 

The world expected so much of me, 

And insisted 

For so many years, 

That from urgent endeavor 

My lids have drooped — 

So now I lie in the dust. 



[88] 



AFTER THE DAY 



The Great War 

Prolo^e : 

TELL you the story 
Of the Great War? 

Be sure, my friends, 
It is no easy task^ — 
In so brief time, 
In such confining space. 

Much may pass untold, 
Yet grant me leave ! 

A shot 

Was fired one day 

At Sarajevo, and I would tell you 

How it wounded half the world — 

If I but may: 

1914 

June 28. 

The Archduke Francis Ferdinand of Aus- 
tria 

[89] 



AFTER THE DAY 

Is assassinated on this date, 
Which disposes of a successor 
To the throne of Karl. 

July 5 

The Crown Council of Germany 
Meets at Potsdam 
And decides on war. 

July 28 

Austria declares war 
On Serbia. 

Au^st 1. 

Germany declares war on Russia 
And invades Luxemburg 
And Belgium. 

August 3. 

Germany declares war on France. 

August 4. 

Great Britain declares war on Germany. 

August 25. 

Germans destroy Louvain, 
And massacre the inhabitants. 

[90] 



AFTER THE DAY 

September 1. 

German troops reach the outskirts 
Of Paris. 

September 6. 

The battle of the Marne 

Is fought in which the French 

Force the Germans 

To retreat to the Aisne River. 

December 24. 

The first German air raid 
Is made on England. 

1915 

May 7. 

The Lusitania is torpedoed 
By a German submarine. 

May 23. 

Italy declares war on Austria. 

August 20. 

Italy declares war on Turkey. 

October 12. 

Edith Cavell is shot 

By Germans in Brussells. 

[91] 



AFTER THE DAY 

1916 

February 21. 

The German attacks on Verdun begin. 

''They shall not pass!'' — Petain. 

April 19. 

An American ultimatum 
Is sent to Germany, 
Threatening to break off relations 
Unless American ships 
Go unmolested. 

May 31. 

The Germans are defeated 
In a naval battle off Jutland. 

August 27. 

Roumania declares war on Germany. 

August 28. 

Italy declares war on Germany. 

1917 

January 31. 

Germany announces 
Ruthless submarine warfare. 

[92] 



AFTER THE DAY 

February 3. 

The United States 

Breaks off diplomatic relations 

With Germany. 

April 6. 

The United States 
Declares war on Germany. 
^^Make the world safe for Democracy!'^ 

■ — Wilson. 

June 26. 

The first American troops 
Land in France. 

'' Lafayette, we are here!^' — Pershing. 

June 29. 

Greece declares war on Germany. 

December 9. 

Jerusalem is captured 
By the British. 
'^The law of Force 
Must yield to the force of Law!*' — Allenby. 

[93] 



AFTER THE DAY 

1918 

March 3. 

The Brest-Litovsk Treaty. 

^'Germany at her worst!'' — Haig. 

March 21. 

The great German Offensive begins. 

^'In Paris hy the first of April!" 
— Hindenburg. 

April 14. 

General Foch is appointed commander-in- 
chief 
Of the Allied Armies. 

May 27 

The last great German drive 

Is begun on Paris. 

They reach the Marne again. 

June 6. 

The American marines 
Smash back at Chateau Thierry 
Marking the turning point 
Of the war. 

[94] 



AFTER THE DAY 

June 7. 

General Omar Bundy 
An American commander, 
Refuses the French order 
To retreat. 

June 23. 

The Italians 
Drive the Austrians 
Back from their lines 
To a flight across the Piave 
With losses totaling one hundred fifty thou- 
sand soldiers. 

July 12. 

French and American forces 
Break the German Offensive 
North of Cantigny. 

July 18. 

Marshal Foch 

Begins his great counter-attack. 

August 6. 

German "75-mile" guns 
Kill civilians in Paris. 

[95] 



AFTER THE DAY 

August 25. 

British battalions 

Cross the Hindenburg line 

North of the Scarpe. 

September 2. 

The United States 

Recognizes the Checho-Slovak Nation. 

September 12. 

The First American Army 
Takes fifteen thousand prisoners 
At St. Mihiel salient. 

September 22. 

British forces 

Trap the entire Turkish Army 

In Palestine. 

September 30. 

Bulgaria lays down arms. 

October 18. 

The Germans are driven back 
From the Belgian Coast. 

[96] 



AFTER THE DAY 

October 24. 

The troops of Italy 

Launch a victorious offensive. 

Against Austria. 

October 30. 

Turkey surrenders. 

November 3. 

Austria surrenders. 

November 7. 

General Pershing 

Leads an American division 

To the capture of Sedan. 

November 9. 

The Kaiser of Germany 

Abdicates and departs for Holland. 

November 11. 

Germany surrenders 
To an Allied Armistice. 



[97] 



Miscellaneous 



AFTER THE DAY 



I Saw a Dead Man 

I SAW a dead man in the night, 
His body stark, his visage damp 
With chilling dews ; I saw his hands 
That bore a rifle rigid quite, 

And medals on his chest, the lamp 
Of Heaven traced by lunar strands. 

I saw a dead man in the night. 

His blackened jowls, his sunken eyes, 
The blood-clots on his matted hair. 

I saw his uniform ; the light 

Of outraged stars gleamed with surmise 
Against his teeth, against his stare. 

I saw a dead man ia the night, 

His pallid silence, and the cold 
Of lif elessness creep over him ; 

I saw his sabre, and the slight 

Wound mine had made. I saw unfold 
The wings of Death to cover him. 

[100] 



AFTER THE DAY 

I saw a dead man in the night, 

Whose spirit long departed made 
Of human semblance nothingness ; 

I saw his shadow, and the might 

Of untold comrades marching, fade 
From earth to God. Ah, Life were less! 



[101] 



AFTER THE DAY 



On Duty 

I HEARD the tread o' soldier feet 
On withered leaves, an' dry. 
''Halt, an' give the Countersign — 

Who goes there ? ' ' hollers I. 
'^ British Ambulance Corps!'' 

Was the Sergeant's prompt reply. 

' ' t^ass, British Ambulance Corps ! ' ' 
An' "All is well!" says I; 

So shoulderin' me gun, I watched 
The Tommies marchin' by. 

Again the tread o' soldier feet 

That night (the moon was high) — 

"Halt, an' give the Countersign, 
"Who goes there?" hollers I. 

'* French Ambulance Corps!" 

Was the Sergeant 's prompt reply. 

' ' Pass, French Ambulance Corps ! ' ' 
An' "All is well!" says I; 

[102] 



AFTER THE DAY 

So shoulderin' me gun, I watched 
The Poilus marchin' by. 

I 've told ye wat the Sergeants said, 
An ' my woids wat were mine — 

(I follows post-instructions, an' 
I never miss a line ! ) 

Along th ' Wypers road at night 
The shells was burstin ', say — 

(I seen more killed from dark to dawn 
Than ever died by day !) 

An ups an' down the Avenoo 
The stretcher-bearers passed, 

From dawn to dark, and dark to dawn 
Wid wounded, dead, an' gassed. 

'*Mon Dieu!'^ I thinks the Commandmant 

Would say, an' so did I, 
When, once again, the tread o' feet 

On withered leaves, an' dry. 

'^Halt, an' give the Countersign — 
"Who goes there?" hollers I. 

''None of your damn business!*' 
Was the Sergeant 's prompt reply. 

[103] 



AFTER THE DAY 

''Pass, American Ambulance Corps!' 
An' ''All is well!" says I; 

So shoulderin' me gun, I watched 
The Yankees marchin ' by ! 



[104] 



AFTER THE DAY 



In a Belgian Prison 

THIS is that dread hour 
Of the rising moon, 
Four thund'rous years ago — 
A night in June. 

Here, where the lurking twilight creeps 

Through garden ferns, 
And shadows clasp ghost-fingers on 

The ivyed urns; 

Here, where a festive Belgian sings 

His joyous lay, 
And lovers' hearts beat to the drums 

The Allies play — 

Here, I forever damned my soul : 

'er fields of dire 
Unhallowed troops I flew, a Spy 

With word to fire ! 

This is that dread hour 

Of the rising moon, 
Four thund 'rous years ago — 

A night in June. 

[105] 



AFTER THE DAY 



In the Shadows 

IT stands, a dark and melancholy tree 
Leaf -lorn beside the sorrow of that land; 
Somewhere against a gray, enshrouded 
strand 
Echo nocturnes sighing from the sea 
Of days that pass ; and in far Normandy 

Fair winds have died on grieving drifts 

of sand — 
Somewhere in Flanders there's a shadowed 
Hand, 
Somewhere in France, a broken fleur-de-lis! 

night of Nations ! When men 's voices leap 
Athwart Titanic gulfs, and Tyrant power 

Hath rolled away like thunder from the Deep 
What cry shall rise in that wide, wondrous 
hour: 

Behold, against the sky for all to see — 
A lonely crucifix on Cavalry! 



[106] 



AFTER THE DAY 



A Cashmere Song 

OSAMAB! Sing to me of swans at eve 
And sleeping orchids where the twi- 
light falls 
On cadenced water, murmuring at dusk 
A requiem beside the Palace walls — 

How in these dark and soundless gardens strayed 
Two mystic friends discoursing on their 
loves 
At sundown, ivhile an amher, crescent moon 
Climbed starward o*er the Maharaja's 
groves! 

* ' One was a King, who secretly had yearned 

Long years for that oft promised by the 
Rose, 

And one a Prince of Yesterday who came 

From rivers where the Scarlet Poppy blows. 

"0 King, in sanguine conquest I have tried 
By feat of Battle, and the glint of swords 

[107] 



AFTER THE DAY 

To vanquish eager armies of thy foes — 

To humble to thy knee, the foreign Lords! 

'' 'My Prince,' the King replied, 'thou speakest 
well, 

Yet it is vain. The bloom of Hope is past — 
A mighty wind hath smote the tree of Eld 

And lo, its leaves lie scattered in the blast ! 

*' 'From out the West, beyond engulfing seas. 
Bronze legions plunge undaunted, and no 
dread 
Nor any horror quells their clamoring ; 

Allah! Peace be with them! War is 
dead. . . .' 

"No word was uttered more. The cypress paths 
A deep, sequestered whispering renewed; 

Whereat they vanished, and the voiceless gloom 
Mantled again that ancient solitude. 

"What dust cries to the years! Those Palace 
walls 
Have crumbled into silence and decay ; 
No swans at twilight float among the reeds — 
And orchids, poppies, all have blown 
away ! 

[108] 



AFTER THE DAY 

''Both King and Prince in closing mists have 
passed 
Along the shadowed corridor of dreams ..." 

Samar! Thou art bathed in dawning light — 
Sing of a sorrow by forgotten streams! 



[109] 



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